


Spin Tales of Things I Wish to See

by sweettasteofbitter



Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Alcohol, F/F, a nerd and a jock walk into a library
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-03
Updated: 2018-02-03
Packaged: 2019-03-13 01:54:26
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,137
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13560195
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sweettasteofbitter/pseuds/sweettasteofbitter
Summary: Deep down in the bowels of Skyhold, there is a library where Mercia Adaar and Cassandra bond over stories, and they find they have more in common that they ever could have imagined.





	Spin Tales of Things I Wish to See

**Author's Note:**

> I sure hope you like gentle, soft Adaars, because Mercia is plenty of both.
> 
> If you want to know what Mercia looks like, my pal Jo did amazing art of her here: https://twitter.com/jobeeart/status/907136505344393217, and serenityfails did amazing art of Mercia & Cassandra having some quality kissy time here: http://archiveofourown.org/works/12504360.

The Dales were beautiful. Dangerous and deadly, but beautiful. The trees here were taller and healthier than anywhere else, and sometimes Mercia craned her neck to look up at the lush canopy stretching out above her. The ancient elven ruins sprawled across the woods were a different kind of wonderful, though whenever Mercia admired their beauty she was instantly reminded of this region’s awful and bloody history, and she had to curl her fingernails into her palms so her anger wouldn’t get the better of her.

At the end of the afternoon they reached the forward camp. Mercia debated between making sure the nug roasted above the campfire was being cooked properly, or concerning herself with her bag, since something inside of it had been poking into her hip for a good portion of the day. She sat down on one of the logs placed around the fire and opted for the latter. Upon undoing the bag’s clasps and peeking inside, she immediately noticed that everything had been brought into disarray. They had been running for quite a bit, and the continuous shaking had rearranged the contents of her bag. Carefully, she took out the bundles of herbs that had miraculously stuck together and not lodged themselves into her books or her clean clothes.

“Do you like reading?” Cassandra looked hopefully at the pile of books Mercia was taking out of her bag to look for an item that had wedged itself underneath the pile. Mercia had recently learned about Cassandra’s taste in literature, but it wouldn’t have surprised her if Cassandra enjoyed reading more genres than just romance. After all, Mercia herself liked reading books on healing as well as adventure novels, but she would not reject a good book of natural poetry or the biography of an intriguing person either.

“Yes, I do,” Mercia said, and triumphantly retrieved her case with lockpicking tools. Her double-ended pick had fallen out, and it was definitely the instrument that had been bothering her hip. She pushed it back into its designated slot and wiped her hands on her thighs.

 Cassandra’s fingers brushed over the backs of the books, trying to make out the titles.

“Anything in particular you enjoy?”

“Oh, I wouldn’t recommend you _Medicinal Herbs of Southern Thedas_ , or _101 Uses for Elfroot,_ ” Mercia smiled, knowing very well what sort of titles she carried in her bag. She had a hankering for knowledge, and especially if that knowledge could be used to fine-tune her skills. She wasn’t much of a fighter, but there wasn’t a recruit in the Inquisition who couldn’t claim they were better off without the Inquisitor’s healing touch.

“You read those for entertainment?”

Mercia shrugged. It wasn’t the first time someone questioned her taste in literature, and it wouldn’t be the last.

“Not always, but you never know when they might come in useful,” Mercia said, feeling the need to defend herself. “For what it’s worth, I do read novels occasionally.”

“Inquisitor, I wasn’t judging you. I apologize if it came across as such.”

Mercia looked at Cassandra. She could tell Cassandra was being earnest, and some of the tension drained from her shoulders.

“I know,” Mercia said.

It was far too easy to forgive Cassandra. The Seeker had been making a genuine effort getting to know her lately, even though she had treated Mercia as a stranger before. Mercia had told Cassandra about her family, her fondness of flowers, and had shown off her cooking skills more than once while Cassandra and her other companions sat quietly around the campfire or asked simple questions. Mercia had grown fond of their conversations, and in this case Cassandra’s attempt to get Mercia to talk was a welcome distraction from the blood that was drying on her daggers. She inevitably had to clean those later on.

“What sort of novels do you read?” Cassandra’s eagerness to discuss Mercia’s books was almost endearing, even though she was now sitting up straight and only occasionally glared down at the books lying on the dry patch of grass.

“Stories of young people seeking adventure, but always landing on their feet. Happy endings. Coming away victoriously despite the odds,” Mercia said, and sighed wistfully. “It’s not how it works in real life, I’ve discovered.”

“We have had victories,” Cassandra reminded her. Mercia nodded in agreement, though she didn’t feel quite the confidence Cassandra emitted.

“We have, but I’m not sure if they were worth the cost. Real life is a lot less glorious than fiction, and I should have known better than to believe we could’ve solved many of these conflicts by means of dialogue.”

Cassandra snorted.

“And people accuse _me_ of being an idealist.”

“I don’t believe it impossible to lay down our blades. If not this instant, then we should pave the way for the years to come.”

Mercia had always been a staunch advocate for peaceful solutions. _Don’t take lives_ , her mother had always told her. _Fix them_. _Heal them. Aid people_. It had become her mantra in life. Even her time with the Valo-Kas and the Inquisition had not changed Mercia’s convictions; if it wasn’t an attainable goal for the near future, she would shape a world where other generations could live peacefully thanks to the fruits of her labor.

“I’m not sure I could believe in it as much as you, but I do believe peace is not an unachievable goal.”

“At least it is a common ground to start from,” Mercia shrugged.

The nug was served, slightly burnt, along with some unsalted, overcooked vegetables, and Mercia instantly regretted not paying more attention to the scouts’ cooking. She would never complain out loud about such trivial matters, however, for the scouts couldn’t help being Fereldan, and they had tried their best.

After she had finished her dinner, Mercia began stowing away her books, and Cassandra seemed sorry to see them go. Trying to keep the conversation going, Mercia broached a book-adjacent topic.

“Say, Cassandra,” she began, wiping any remaining food stains from her mouth with her handkerchief. “Are you aware there is a small library tucked away underneath Skyhold?”

“I have visited it once or twice,” Cassandra said, flicking some crumbs from her pants onto the ground. “But I couldn’t find many interesting titles on the shelves, and the air was awfully musty.” Cassandra frowned. “Do you go there often?”

“I do, mainly because it is quiet. It’s not perfect because it does get rather cold. The silence, however, is more attractive than anything, so nestling under a blanket makes it an above decent reading spot. As for the smell, well, it is nothing some sandalwood incense can’t solve.”

“What about your own rooms at Skyhold? They must be much warmer than the castle’s lower regions, and they are in such a remote wing that they can hardly be tumultuous.”

“That might be true, but my rooms aren’t nearly close enough to the wine cellar,” Mercia said, and gifted Cassandra a mischievous smile. Cassandra chuckled in response, a gorgeous rich sound that put Mercia off for a few seconds. A warm, familiar tingle graced her limbs, then quietly disappeared.

It hadn’t been the first time her body reacted like this to something Cassandra did or said, or even just her presence. It was as disconcerting as it was delightful - disconcerting because she technically was Cassandra’s superior now, and she didn’t know if Cassandra fancied women at all. Still, that didn’t make Cassandra less beautiful, with her strong, broad shoulders bearing purpose, and Mercia only thought it logical that she sometimes felt the urge to put herself in Cassandra’s capable hands. The feeling was physical, nothing more, which was good, for she would barely have had time for a relationship otherwise.

Cassandra had clearly been taking steps towards friendship, and Mercia intended to offer her own companionship in return. She shifted and leaned towards Cassandra a little, so the others couldn’t hear what she said.

“If you’ve a mind, you’re more than welcome to join me sometime. I’m usually there during the evenings when Ambassador Montilyet hasn’t filled my schedule with nobles and fancy dinners,” Mercia’s eyes widened. “Please don’t let me be misunderstood, I do enjoy those dinners, but I also require some time alone ever so often.”

“You do not need to pretend for my sake,” Cassandra said. “I abhor such gatherings.”

“I’m sorry to hear that, but I’m not pretending,” Mercia insisted, because she _wasn’t_ ; dinners were always a great excuse for her to look and smell nice. She enjoyed taking long baths and taking down her hair, then letting luxurious fabrics fall around her body and putting gold or silver around her wrists and neck.

Besides, there was something intriguing about meeting Orlesian and Fereldan nobility, noticing the differences and the similarities between the two, and trying to steer them through conversation without debates getting heated. It always took Mercia some time to warm up to the atmosphere, and she constantly felt like an outsider looking in, but despite that she loved to impress, astonish every single guest with “novel” ideas. She would let herself be praised for her knowledge, but she never descended into open boasting. It was a role she played, for outside of these situations she would never allow others to peel away the layers of her modesty, but if nobles could put on a mask and make an act out of living, so could she. Because of this, she was glad others in the Inquisition almost never joined these dinners, for they would barely have recognized her.

And yes, after having heard that confession, Cassandra briefly looked at her as though she had spawned a second head.

“The library. Please consider it?” Mercia said quickly, noticing that Sera as well as some of the scouts were eyeing them strangely.

“I will. I promise,” Cassandra said.

 

* * *

 

When they arrived at Skyhold two weeks later, Mercia settled back into the regular patterns she had created when staying in the castle. The first night after her return, she slept for ten hours before getting up in the morning, and after a nutritious breakfast she paid a visit to the infirmary, just to see if the healers there needed her help. When that turned out not to be the case, she went for a stroll through the gardens, mentally preparing herself for the day to come, and all the paperwork she inevitably had to fill in. And surely, soon enough, Ambassador Montilyet came tugging at her sleeve, politely asking her if she was willing to shrink the pile of correspondence that had grown significantly since her departure. Mercia asked her if the letters as well as her lunch could be sent to her room, and returned inside to make herself a preparatory cup of tea.

She made quite a bit of progress, writing down notes of thanks or brief letters, signing all her responses with _Cordially, Inquisitor Adaar_ , and stamping the Inquisition sigil neatly underneath her signature. This took up a good chunk of her day, so after dinner she escaped to her usual reading spot.

The library was truly magnificent; there were voices, but they were very, very far away, and Mercia could only distinguish them if she focused really hard. She ignored the far-away noises, because the tasks she had set out for herself required all of her attention.

She was a little disappointed that Cassandra did not turn up that night, but not surprised. Cassandra probably had other things to do, or she thought that spending time with Mercia in this way was silly…or she was really turned off by the prospect of having to sit in this room. All were fair points, so Mercia grew over her disappointment rather easily. She finished reading a chapter in one of her books on herbal medicine and penned a satisfying list of notes at the desk. She retired to bed at a decent hour, only to rise when it was still dark outside.

The next day was roughly the same. As she had nothing scheduled in the evening, she entered the library again, lighting candles and settling comfortably underneath the blanket she always brought with her. She never left her blanket in the room, lest someone decided to take what wasn’t theirs.

The door opened, and Mercia looked up. She strained her neck to see who it was, and to her delight Cassandra appeared in her field of vision. Despite wearing her breastplate and gloves, Cassandra also carried a book under her arm, and a shape Mercia identified as a folded up blanket once she stepped further into the light.

“Hello, Inquisitor.”

“Cassandra, you’re here!” Mercia clasped her hands together in delight. “I’m thrilled you took up on my offer.”

Mercia hurried to her feet, emptying the other chair of the pile of books she had temporarily placed on it, and put it closer to her own.

“This room smells better than I remember,” Cassandra said. She looked around, taking in the rest of the room with piqued interest even though she had been here before.

“No incense this time, just candles,” Mercia said, gesturing at the candles up on the candlesticks on the desk. “Scented ones, naturally.”

She patted down on the seat, and Cassandra sat down, spreading the blanket over her lap.

“Do we sit and read? Is that all there is to it?”

Mercia blinked.

“I won’t be conducting exams about your reading material, if that is what you’re asking,” she said.

Cassandra rolled her eyes.

“But yes, that is how I imagined it,” Mercia explained, embarrassed about Cassandra not appreciating her joke. “Of course you came at a time when I had not thought of bringing wine, or anything else to quench our thirst, for that matter,” Mercia apologized. “I promise I will not forget next time – if there is a next time, of course,” she added hastily.

“Who knows,” Cassandra said, and opened her book. “It _is_ very quiet in here. I believe I might come to like this place yet.”

Mercia smiled contently, and turned back to the pages of her own novel. She had only just started reading this one, but it had already grasped her attention; the protagonist was rebellious but kind, and Mercia wanted her to succeed. The language was pleasant, and the author was clearly a talented individual, conjuring beautiful sceneries that did not detract from the action or the plot. Within moments the world around Mercia faded away and she was absorbed into the story again.

They sat in silence for at least twenty minutes, the only sound filling the room being a page being turned, a subtle sigh or a shifting of bodies. No words were being spoken, and Mercia almost forgot Cassandra was with her, until Cassandra coughed and Mercia looked up, alarmed. That movement, in turn, startled Cassandra, until they were staring at each other, and broke out into mutual smiles.

“I can’t believe I almost forgot you were here, I feel like such a fool,” Mercia admitted softly.

“I might be human, but I am not so short that you would miss me completely,” Cassandra said. She looked very satisfied with her joke, so Mercia couldn’t help but laugh. Too late, she realized that it put her pointed canines on display, and she closed her mouth again. She was usually so careful about showing them, but around Cassandra she was inclined to let down her guard.

No wonder people thought of her as a serious Inquisitor, if she refused to laugh around them, even though the reason why she didn’t were her teeth. Admittedly, Mercia did appreciate it when people focused on their tasks, and she did not always appreciate noisy environments, but did that make her serious or even boring?  If it did, she wasn’t going to change to please others.

Cassandra shifted, clearly noticing Mercia’s discomfort but attempting to steer the conversation in a different direction. “Is it a good book?”

Mercia lifted her novel so Cassandra could read the title and author, then looked fondly at the cover herself.

“Yes, I’ve been enjoying it very much.”

“What is it about?” Cassandra sat up straighter, ready to pay attention.

“It’s about an ambitious young woman who is determined to become a dragon trainer. Utter nonsense and not grounded in reality, of course, for dragons cannot be trained properly or reasoned with, but it’s surprisingly well written. It is a trilogy. I also own the second part, so I can read it when I have finished this one, but have not been able to get a hold of the final part yet. It seems impossible to track it down in Orlais, sadly.”

“Has it not been banned?”

“What? No, not as far as I know. Why would it be banned?”

“Sometimes the author or the topic is controversial,” Cassandra said, and Mercia wasn’t sure if it was the shelves around them casting shadows, or if Cassandra’s face was actually growing a shade darker.

“I don’t think this particular author or the topic is controversial at all,” Mercia said. “But then, I don’t follow Orlesian literary circles very closely. Perhaps it is just a very popular series, and I have been very unlucky in my endeavors to find it, because it has been sold out.”

“That could also be it,” Cassandra agreed, and with that, the conversation had finished, and they went back to their fictional worlds.

 

* * *

 

Mercia waited for Cassandra the next night, but much to her dismay Cassandra did not make an appearance. When Mercia reluctantly asked her why she hadn’t shown up, Cassandra admitted that she had been working on her recording of what had happened at Adamant. She promised to turn up that night, and true to her character, she did not break her promise.

It was the beginning of a habit.

Cassandra’s visits started getting more consistent, until Mercia could tell exactly when Cassandra would walk in and greet her, or better even, was already waiting for her to enter the library. They agreed to meet at least twice a week, unless either of them had other matters to attend to, and they always let the other know upfront if that was the case.

During their meetings they were interrupted only twice, once by an apprentice from the allied mages who seemed more impressed by Cassandra’s presence than they were by the Inquisitor’s, and backed out slowly with their hands held up in the air. The other time it was Dorian, who went about his business looking for a certain tome and declined Mercia’s polite but insistent offer to sit with them, claiming that he could feel the tips of his mustache gather frost the library. He left hurriedly after that, shivering theatrically until he shut the door behind his back.

The best part of this arrangement was that Cassandra always put a genuine interest in what Mercia was reading, and Mercia returned the favor in kind. Some nights they ended up discussing the novels more than they read them. It was very easy to know which ones were Cassandra’s favorites, for she always emphasized her enjoyment with excited gestures and an unapologetic quickening of her tongue, sometimes facilitated by the wine Mercia had brought with her.

Romance novels remained a true preference for Cassandra, and she kept trying to convince Mercia to read them. Mercia was coaxed reading one of them eventually, but only because Cassandra could be very convincing when she spoke passionately about her favorite stories. Despite the novel being of reasonable quality, it did not grab Mercia’s attention quite the way Cassandra would’ve hoped.

“You can hardly think their passion is not convincing-” Cassandra said while they discussed why Mercia hadn’t enjoyed the story. Her eyes were flaring, her entire being offended that Mercia had deigned to admit that she did not enjoy the novel as much as Cassandra would’ve liked. She was gesturing excitedly, her weathered hands on display. She had recently stopped wearing her armor to these evenings.

“That is not the point I’m trying to make,” Mercia said, awkwardly tugging at strands of hair that had come loose from her braid. “I do not care much for most romance novels, for they contain the love between a man and a woman. And for me those stories aren’t, uhm,” she looked down. “All that relatable.”

“Oh,” Cassandra said, her disappointment not waning. “But this isn’t about who these people _are_ , but what they represent.”

“What they represent,” Mercia said bitterly, “is the loneliness, the little-understood-ness, of people like me.”

Cassandra let out a nervous breath, and brought her wine to her mouth.

“Of people like us,” she said against the rim of her glass.

Mercia leaned back in her chair, regarding Cassandra with a certain degree of sympathy.

“Oh, Cassandra, I’m sorry, the way you reacted, I assumed...”

“It’s all right,” Cassandra said woodenly. “I have never told anyone before.” She shifted in her seat, putting her glass back onto the desk, her discomfort extremely palpable. “Ugh. Let us discuss something else.”

Mercia stared at Cassandra, not entirely sure what to say.

“For what it’s worth, I’m flattered you-”

“Something. Else.” Cassandra said tersely. Mercia felt incredibly sorry for her, remembering just how little of a relief it could be to tell someone.

“Have you…have you made any progress with your accounts of what happened in the Fade?”

Cassandra was still frowning, but _differently_.

“Only a little. It remains hard to find the right words. The images are very clear in my head, but I cannot find the terms to describe them appropriately…”

 

* * *

 

On nights when they ran out of stories to discuss, they moved on to other topics. Mercia could fawn about her favorite recipes, and Cassandra would talk about tactics and combat moves that had been tried and true. However, there were a few matters that were a taboo. The Chantry was never discussed unless it pertained Cassandra’s direct involvement in it. Mercia wasn’t Andrastian, and due to unpleasant conversion attempts in her past any mention of the Chantry made her shift in her seat. Mercia also never dared to bring up Cassandra’s family. Instead, Mercia rambled about her hometown, about her father’s loom, how her mother had bestowed her talent for healing upon her, all the while making very clear that Cassandra didn’t have to speak about her own family if she didn’t feel comfortable to do so.

It was the easiest thing to fall into, to have a companion who did not mind, no, even _appreciated_ it when Mercia rambled about her books, and about all the small things that mattered to her.

Her attraction to Cassandra had not dissipated in the face of friendship. If anything, it had only grown stronger. Their conversations were pleasant enough, but then Cassandra would lean towards her while sprouting another example of her slowly revealing sense of humor, or wipe at her wine-moistened lips with her thumb before turning a page, and the fire would flare inside Mercia’s stomach. It made her want to do nothing less than to pull Cassandra close and put her mouth to hers, and sometimes, when Cassandra’s actions made a particularly dark blush appear on Mercia’s cheekbones, she thought of pushing Cassandra back against silken sheets and putting her mouth to every inch of her.

Even though she was more or less used to it by now, at times she would still be caught unawares, leaving her severely distracted, pretending it was her shyness that made her tongue tie up in knots. The more often she opened up to Cassandra, the harder it became to play it off as such, and Mercia did not look forward to the day Cassandra would be able to point this out.

 

* * *

 

They traveled all the way to the Western Approach to tackle a massive problem with sulfur pits and the emergence of darkspawn. Mercia had hoped never to set a foot in that place again, but she didn’t have a choice. The endless stretches of sand made her long for trees more than she possibly could have imagined. Still, it created a sense of comradeship to hear her complaints voiced by her fellow travelers, especially when it came to the discovery of sand in all of their belongings. Sera kept loudly proclaiming that sand had found its way into her breeches, and no one minded it.

On their way back, they stayed in the Orlesian capital for a few days because several people had mentioned having to run errands. As soon as they set foot within the borders of Val Royaux, Mercia lost most of her companions out of sight. She interpreted the visit as leisure time, even though she was pulled this way or that by her friends, insisting she had to inspect a new store, or meet people of influence to further their cause.

When Mercia cleaned out her bag, turned it inside out and get rid of the sand that was still crunching between all of her belongings, the second part of the trilogy she had been enjoying turned up again. She had tried to find the final part in catalogues and book shops, but she had failed. She had been rereading this volume back at Skyhold, complaining to Cassandra about how impossible it was to wait for the next part of a story, igniting a spark of vigorous recognition within her reading companion.

On the road, however, she hadn’t had the time to read on her own, let alone in the presence of Cassandra. An idea began to form in her mind, and she decided to share it. She took one of her books to breakfast at the inn they were staying, put it on the table where Cassandra was putting raspberry jam on her toast, and sat down. Cassandra’s gaze went from Mercia’s fingers on the leather-bound cover of the novel up to her face, and she raised her eyebrows.

“Good morning, Cassandra,” she said, friendly as always even though Cassandra didn’t seem to be fully awake yet. “It has been a month since we last read together. I miss it quite a bit.”

“Our duties have not permitted us to,” Cassandra reminded her, shoving a piece of toast in Mercia’s direction. “Unless you prefer a dusty, red-lyrium-filled cave or the tent we shared with a snoring Sera to our usual reading spot.”

“I’m sitting right here, you know,” Sera called over from the table behind them.

Mercia turned around, briefly acknowledged Sera with a wave of her hand, then turned back and grinned at Cassandra.

“No thanks. I would even prefer our little library in the state it was in before it was cleaned.”

“I never saw that room in its original state,” Cassandra admitted. “But then, I did not see much of Skyhold’s inner rooms when we first arrived. That was Ambassador Montilyet’s job.”

“You should consider yourself very lucky. There were spider webs running from the floor to ceiling, and I have felt many a rat scurrying away in the dark when I first stepped a foot inside.”

“That doesn’t sound very pleasant,” Cassandra said, scrunching up her nose, and Mercia shook her head in confirmation. Complaining about the state Skyhold was in when they arrived there was not why she had seated herself at this table, however.

“Listen, Cassandra,” Mercia began, and Cassandra looked up, giving Mercia her undivided attention, and Mercia felt her body fill up with an unusual giddiness. “Vivienne has invited me to a wine-tasting session with some of her acquaintances this afternoon, but we could read together tonight, after dinner? My room has a balcony, and though it is not as quiet as we are used to, at least it is warmer, and it smells of flowers.”

“That is not a bad idea,” Cassandra said, smiling. “The flowers especially, are a very convincing argument.”

 

* * *

 

Mercia returned from her little outing with Vivienne not entirely sober, but between dinner and her appointment with Cassandra there was enough time to splash some water in her face. She was still debating what to read when she heard a knock on the door. She hastened to let Cassandra inside.

“Go ahead and take a seat, I’ll just take down my hair first. It’s been giving me a headache all afternoon,” Mercia said. Cassandra headed for the balcony, leaving the double doors open and the curtains blowing inside with the evening breeze.

Mercia freed herself of the tight bun on top of her head, letting her curls fall over her shoulders. She was used to wearing her hair in a braid, not all coiled up and fastened with pins that prodded her head. Finally relieved of this torture, she ran her fingers over her scalp and made a vaguely obscene noise. She took off the tight silken blouse that sat too snugly around her upper arms and chest, and which she had only been wearing because Vivienne had once remarked that it suited her beautifully, but Mercia had gained a bit of muscle and padding in places since then. Dressing down left her in a simple, low-cut chemise with a neat row of white buttons running down her breasts. She put a shawl around her shoulders, picked up a random unread book in one hand and a decanter of water in the other, and made for the balcony.

“I take it you and Vivienne enjoyed yourselves?” Cassandra asked, watching Mercia while she put down the decanter. Mint leaves floated on the surface. Mercia quickly went back inside to get two glasses.

“Yes, we did,” Mercia said, reappearing, from her room. “I am not even certain I have sobered up yet. Turns out you’re not actually supposed to _swallow_ the wine, and Vivienne mistakenly believed we covered that aspect in my etiquette lessons, so she didn’t remind me of it,” Mercia said, and despite the blush that rose to her cheeks, she could laugh about her misstep.

While pouring the water, the shawl slipped off one shoulder. She passed Cassandra her glass, and to her surprise Cassandra’s eyes were rapidly drawn from the place on Mercia’s body they had been resting on.

Wait. Had Cassandra been looking at her breasts?

Cassandra’s face turned a deep red and she insistently avoided Mercia’s gaze, which more or less confirmed her suspicions. It was better not to attribute any meaning to it; it was just something that happened sometimes. Mercia had even caught women who were not attracted to other women staring at her, leaving them slightly envious in most cases. If anything, Mercia was flattered that Cassandra had looked at her.

She sat down, pulling her shawl around her shoulders properly, and took her novel in her lap.

“What are you reading tonight?” She asked, taking a sip of the refreshing water and letting out a satisfied noise when the coolness of it hit her tongue.

“I bought something new at a book shop while you were away,” Cassandra said. She lifted her purchase so Mercia could look at it, but neither the title nor the author rang a bell.

“Is it romance again?” Mercia said, a teasing smile tugging at the corner of her mouth.

Cassandra frowned.

“Why must that be an accusation?”

“It isn’t, but don’t you think your taste in literature might have given you high expectations you of this world? Haven’t poetic words colored your vision?”

“Have your adventure novels with idealistic happy endings not colored yours?” Cassandra said fiercely, and Mercia knew she had a valid point. Cassandra fished a mint leaf out of her water and continued: “It is not selfish to yearn for something that I do not think is unrealistic. I have these expectations of romance because I wish to engage in it in such a way. I want someone who gives me flowers and reads me poetry by candlelight,” she turned her head, looking Mercia in the eye. “I want the ideal.”

“You deserve it,” Mercia said, from the bottom of her heart. Cassandra was a wonderful woman, and she deserved everything she wanted, and more.

“Thank you,” Cassandra said, her eyes kind. “You are a very supportive friend, and I appreciate it.”

Cassandra looked so happy when she spoke of these things. Mercia swallowed. What if _she_ tried to give Cassandra what she desired? Mercia felt a rush of blood flow to her head, and she shook it quietly, leaving Cassandra to guess what she had been thinking about.

An awkward silence fell. Mercia quickly opened her book and pretended to read, even though she could not retain a single word.

She shouldn’t. _Couldn’t_. The only kind of poetry she enjoyed dealt with nature, not romantic bonds between people. But Cassandra was right that flowers were romantic and carried certain meanings, so Mercia could see their appeal. But inside her confused mind the language of flowers turned into something else entirely, and made her conjure images of how splendid Cassandra would look with a hand-crafted flower crown and nothing else, petals cascading down in the valley between her breasts. And afterwards, tangled up, breaths ghosting across cheeks, they would talk, continue their tradition of discussing the things that mattered…beyond each other.

Wait, what? Where had these thoughts even come from?

She was being ridiculous. This was probably still the wine in her veins talking, making it easier for her resolve to melt away and to come up with such thoughts. She would get over this, and in the morning she would probably have forgotten about it.

(The truth, buried too deep at that moment to be safely retrieved even though the suspicion was there, was that Cassandra had taken root in her heart a long time ago).

 

* * *

 

During their absence, Skyhold had been graced by spring. The garden had never looked this beautiful underneath the spotless sky, and Mercia spent many hours sitting in the sun, reading letters and talking to people. Days lengthened, and she had to cut back severely on the hours spent reading in the library with Cassandra. Every now and then, though, they would surprise the other with a visit.

One evening, Mercia was reading the same book as she had picked on the balcony in Val Royeaux. It was a rather thick volume, and although it wasn’t as engaging as she had hoped it would be, there were references to places she knew, and it was a gentle trip down memory lane. At least, it was gentle, until a the letters made up the shape of her hometown, a hamlet tucked away underneath Starkhaven.

What were the odds? She had grown up among a miniscule community that resided in a few farms around a village square. It was the home to a small Chantry that she had never cared for, and fields with crops and farm animals stretching out around it. And here, this author described its quiet beauty as though they knew Mercia was reading it. The name of the place of which she had so many happy memories began to swim before her eyes, and suddenly everything reminded her of her parents, whom she hadn’t seen in a few years. It just hit her just how much she missed them, her father’s excellent vegetable stews, her mother’s soft touch and their shared passion for helping people.

A heavy feeling laid down upon her chest, as burdensome as stone, and suddenly she found it hard to breathe. Tears welled up in her eyes, spilling over her cheeks. She glanced at Cassandra and tried to keep silent, for she didn’t want to explain why she was crying. This was for Cassandra’s sake; Cassandra didn’t even _have_ parents, and Mercia didn’t want to upset her. She meant to control herself, but this only made things worse, developing at a disastrous pace until she was no longer able to hold back her sobs and she was leaving tear drops all over the page.

Cassandra looked up.

“What’s wrong?”

Mercia waved a hand in front of her face, then covered her mouth with it, so cluttered with tears she was that she could not answer properly. Cassandra waited for speech to return, and didn’t try to guess what had distressed her.

Mercia had the clarity of mind to pull a clean handkerchief from her pocket. She bent forwards, with her elbows on her knees, and hiccupped into the cloth until she had calmed down a little. She looked at Cassandra with puffy, tear-stained eyes.

“I’m sorry…the author mentioned my hometown, and I haven’t been there in so long, I was hit with an overwhelming bout of homesickness.”

Cassandra closed her book, put it on the desk, and placed a calculated hand on Mercia’s knee.

“Do you miss your family?” She asked, and Mercia gave her a watery smile, grateful for Cassandra’s understanding. She also realized that Cassandra had to be bearing some form of discomfort only to be able to console her.

“Yes, I do. I miss them so much,” Mercia said softly.

“Let them know,” Cassandra spoke resolutely, and Mercia could almost hear the ‘ _before it’s too late_ ’ behind her words.

Cassandra’s thumb brushed her knee. Mercia put her hand over Cassandra’s and squeezed it. It was incredibly soothing to feel Cassandra’s fingers underneath her own, as though Cassandra had been comforting her for years. But then Cassandra turned her hand underneath Mercia’s, caressed the backs of Mercia’s fingers with her thumb, and a delicious feeling curled up Mercia’s spine. Her stomach filled with unexpected butterflies, making her want to hold Cassandra’s hand for ill-advised amounts of time. She was shaking with more than her sorrows, now. A soft, feather down feeling settled over her like a blanket, her entire being ready to fly away.

_Oh_.

She knew what it felt like wanting to bed someone, but this was far beyond that. This was no longer pure want; she had never reacted so emotionally to anything Cassandra had done or said before. She had been right, then, on that balcony in Val Royeaux, nursing the suspicion that her brain had been hazed over by feelings of the romantic kind.

She had fallen in love with Cassandra.

It had crept up on her and she had let it in, had welcomed it. She had embraced the racing of her blood, the happiness she felt at being near Cassandra, the confused, torturous joy that filled her to such a point that it made her inclined to trip over her tongue.

Although her first instinct was to dismiss this feeling, because it made _sense_ , because people often fell in love when they were physically attracted to someone they felt an emotional connection to, she felt she didn’t want to rationalize these feelings away.

They sat like this for a while, not speaking, just the touch of their hands and their own thoughts, and Mercia’s shuddering breaths as she regained her composure. Reluctantly, Mercia retracted her hand, because she realized they would have to go about their day and could not sit like this even though she wanted to. Cassandra leaned back in her chair, and Mercia looked at her with her newly crystallized affection.

“Thank you, Cassandra,” Mercia said. “I will write them a letter, first thing tomorrow.”

And so she did. Due to her other duties, it had been difficult to maintain her correspondence with her parents, but now she poured her pride and joy out on the page. Securing that connection once more relieved her of a burden she didn’t know she had been carrying, and she silently thanked Cassandra for prompting her to do so.

 

* * *

 

“I should have looked harder. I should have seen the signs. I could’ve…I could’ve saved…”

Cassandra trailed off and stared blankly at the large tome in front of her. It had been passed onto her by Lord Seeker Lucius after the events at Caer Oswin. Cassandra had been awfully quiet and reserved for the past few days, not turning up on their appointed reading nights. Until tonight, when she had barged in with the tome underneath her arm, and pushed it down onto the desk, which had shaken with the force of it.

“You shouldn’t blame yourself,” Mercia shook her head. She had been there, when Cassandra found what remained of the Seekers of Truth. She had been there when Cassandra had to kill her former apprentice, and man she clearly cared in a way that resembled a family bond of sorts. And now Cassandra had been finding all these horrible truths that had clearly shaken her to her core, making her question everything she had learned, everything she had revered her whole life.

Cassandra didn’t respond. Instead, she got up from her chair, crossing the room with furious strides. It looked like she was heading for the door, but in the middle of the narrow corridor she stopped, her shoulders up over her ears, her hands curled up into fists.

Splinters of wood were sent flying around as Cassandra’s fist connected with the nearest bookshelf. Books fell off the shelf and Cassandra cursed loudly, shaking her hand and grimacing in pain.

“Cassandra!” Mercia exclaimed, and stumbled to her feet, her book dropping onto the floor as she rushed to Cassandra’s side. Cassandra looked up at her. For a single moment, Mercia thought Cassandra would punch her too…but instead, she let out a single, heart-wrenching sob. Tears trickled down over her cheeks, and Mercia watched helplessly. She wanted to touch Cassandra, to help her stop hurting, but she wasn’t certain if her touch was welcomed, and she didn’t want her feelings towards Cassandra to reign over her actions.

She put her hand on Cassandra’s shoulder. It was a neutral touch, and wouldn’t cross any lines when dealing with a grieving person. To her surprise, Cassandra leaned in, closer than was perhaps wise - so close, in fact, that Mercia unintentionally pressed her cheek to Cassandra’s forehead. They breathed, together, and Mercia simply waited. She brushed Cassandra’s back awkwardly with one hand, her blood buzzing in her ears.

“If there is anything I can do for you, Cassandra,” she said. “Anything at all, please tell me.”

“Right now, you might want to take a look at my hand,” Cassandra said hoarsely.

Mercia took a step back and Cassandra showed what was wrong. Cassandra’s knuckles were raw and bloodied, and her hand had swollen so quickly that Mercia suspected it was either severely bruised, or some fracturing had occurred. The gears started turning inside Mercia’s head.

“Please sit back down in your chair,” she said with a tone that brooked no refusal. She guided Cassandra back to her seat, Mercia folded her own blanket up into a square and put it underneath Cassandra’s hand so it could rest comfortably.  

“Cassandra, it’s all right. I need you to stay here, and I will return to you as quickly as I can,” Mercia said, her voice calm and comforting. She didn’t get a response. She walked out of the room, but as soon as the door had closed behind her back she ran to her sleeping quarters as quickly as her feet could carry her. She retrieved her bag to get access to bandages, scissors, and tweezers, for she suspected some splinters might’ve wedged themselves inside Cassandra’s skin.

Upon Mercia’s return, Cassandra was turned to herself in a way Mercia had rarely see her before. Mercia put opened her bag and kneeled in front of her. Carefully, she took Cassandra’s hand in hers and examined it.

Her knuckles were bleeding, and as Mercia had suspected, she had to take out a splinter. She pressed a clean cloth to Cassandra’s hand, and continued to shake, press and squeeze to see if there was any other significant damage. When Mercia pressed her thumb down on the top of her hand, Cassandra hissed in pain, wanting to jerk her hand back out of Mercia’s grasp.

“Just as I thought…” Mercia said, more to herself than to Cassandra, though the latter did let out a frustrated noise.

Mercia dabbed around the wounds, cleaning off the worst of the blood.

“Do you want to talk? About…Daniel?” She asked it to distract Cassandra, who was grinding her teeth to prevent herself from showing too much pain – a symptom of bravery Mercia had seen all too often.

Mercia thought that perhaps the pain of losing Daniel was still buried too deep, but Cassandra took a shuddering breath, and she began to talk. Her voice wavered a couple of times before becoming more confident.

“Daniel,” Cassandra said sadly, though there was an undeniable pride in her voice. “He was a fine young man. Attentive. Hung onto my every word, to the point of irritation. Sometimes I wondered what he thought I could teach him,” Cassandra sighed. “What did I have to say that others couldn’t?”

“I think you have a great many things to say, Cassandra,” Mercia looked up at Cassandra, and her cheeks grew hot. “And possibly many more things to show.”

Cassandra went on, sharing fond memories of Daniel and other Seekers, while Mercia splinted and bound the wounded hand so the fractured bone would be able to heal.

“You might have to sleep in these clothes tonight if you don’t want to tear them off.” Mercia said. “If your hand hurts too much, or the swelling is too uncomfortable, you come to me, or you visit the infirmary. I have recipes for concoctions that can ease your pain, and the infirmary has similar solutions. Most importantly, you need to _rest_.”

Cassandra groaned, frustrated, but also knew from experience that rest was the only way to make sure a broken bone could heal. She leaned forward, her hair obscuring her eyes.

“I…thank you, for dealing with my foolishness, and for listening to me. It was oddly liberating to confide in you,” Cassandra glanced at Mercia through her eyelashes. “In the end, I do not think I could have done this without you.”

“You’re welcome,” Mercia said.

Cassandra got to her feet, holding her hand and exiting through the door. She left behind a pondering Mercia. She sat there, on the floor, staring at the bookshelves for a few minutes before leaning against the arm rest with her forehead.

 

* * *

 

Mercia really hadn’t liked seeing Cassandra so out of her debt, feeling guilty for things that were beyond her control. It was her own hot-headedness that had injured her, and Mercia had far from enjoyed seeing that Cassandra could become a danger to herself. But even more prominent in her mind was the way Cassandra had leaned in when Mercia tried to console her; the warmth of her had been very palpable and real. They had been physically and emotionally close, and despite the heartbreaking aspect of it, it had thrilled Mercia beyond belief to be able to hold Cassandra.

What if Cassandra wanted this too? Were they dancing around each other? Around the truth? But what if Mercia was misreading the signs, and Cassandra really rather could not be romantically involved with her because she was the Inquisitor – and a Tal-Vashoth to boot? Mercia shook her head. Cassandra had never said that she didn’t wish to be courted by a Vashoth, and had never made allusions in that direction.

If neither of them took the first step, she would never find out.

It was this thought that made Mercia travel down to the valley. At this time of year, the winter snow had melted and flowers had colored the fields. She took an hour to pick a bouquet worthy of Cassandra, picking perfect peonies and daisies. She hurried back to Skyhold to arrange them, and began writing a note to be left together with the flowers.

_Dear Cassandra,_

_Consider this a token of my affection._

_Yours,_

Her pen floated above the paper. Was it a good idea to sign the note with her name, or did she want to leave Cassandra guessing about who sent her the flowers? She wasn’t certain if she was ready for that confrontation yet, and doubt and cowardice started filling her mind. By leaving an anonymous bouquet she could bide herself some time. Mercia took one of the flowers, a beautiful daisy with all its petals intact, and put it in her braid. This was a much more subtle gesture, and she could only hope Cassandra would notice it and be able to make the connection.

Mercia signed the note with _“An Admirer,”_ and left the flowers in the space above the forge, the loft Cassandra had made her own.

A week passed, but Cassandra did not notice or say anything, not even during face-to-face conversations. Nothing in her behavior changed, which made Mercia second-guess herself. Had this been a good idea? What if Cassandra thought it was a joke, and did not understand the gravity of the gesture?

There was no time to regret her decisions. Bears had been terrorizing one of the Inquisition camps in the Hinterlands, so Mercia took a few people with her to take care of the problem. At Mercia’s insistence, Cassandra stayed at Skyhold to let her injury heal, but all this gained her were a few grunts and a foul look, though in the end, Cassandra reluctantly agreed.

When they returned, the daisy in Mercia’s hair had long withered. She placed another fresh bouquet in Cassandra’s loft, again taking a flower to weave into her braid. She desperately hoped Cassandra would notice this time around, because even Mercia only had so much patience. She wanted to _know_.

 

* * *

 

“All right, Your Worship, now when I feign on the right to try to create an opening -”

“I try to dodge so you won’t trick me. I understand.”

“Very well,” Krem grinned. The mercenary raised his weapon, ready for the attack.

Sparring with the Chargers was one of the best moments of Mercia’s week; not because she enjoyed practicing combat that much – after months of training she was still atrocious at it - but it was a welcome distraction that left her tired but satisfied. Mercia worked until sweat was dripping over her back and staining her armpits. Curls were sticking to her forehead, her cheeks. Cassandra always made fighting look so graceful, like dancing, but to Mercia it felt like someone had kicked both her feet from underneath her.

“Do you want me to comment on your sparring, Lieutenant?” A familiar voice said behind Mercia’s back.

“If you want, Seeker Penta- hmpf!” Krem stumbled as Mercia finally found an opening in his defense and shoved him to the ground. Mercia wanted to raise her hands victoriously, but then realized she hadn’t won by means of skill. Instead she covered her mouth, a little shocked by her mistake, and offered her hand to a slightly befuddled Krem.

“First mistake: always keep your eyes on your opponent,” Cassandra said, a very subtle note of humor in her voice. Krem grumbled as he got to his feet, brushing the dirt off his pants.

Mercia wasn’t sure if it was a good idea to have Cassandra looking at her, for she was far too distracting and it would not benefit her routine at all.

“No offense, Cassandra, but I couldn’t fulfill your wishes for my footwork when I am at my fittest, let alone when Krem has been working me for a good thirty minutes,” Mercia said quickly.

Mercia threw her braid over her shoulder, and something fell on the ground. The movement caught Cassandra’s attention, and she bent over to pick up the item. Her eyes went down to the daisy in her hand, much like the ones Mercia had left in this week’s bouquet. She looked back up, catching Mercia’s gaze. Mercia wasn’t sure if the shock was more obvious on Cassandra’s face or on her own.

Mercia wasn’t sure if she should explain herself, but when she had finally made her decision to at least say _something_ , Cassandra had already turned around and left, all without saying a word.

“What was that about?”

Mercia turned around to face Krem. Her heart was racing. She had only seen Cassandra’s reaction so briefly, and wasn’t sure whether it was good or bad.

“I...I’m not sure if we did something to upset her.” She said. It was a terrible lie, but Krem seemed to buy it.

“Are you ready for one more round, or would you prefer to do this another time?”

“Oh no, I’m truly ready for a hot bath and clean clothes,” Mercia said. “Perhaps next time?”

“Right, I think I’ll call it a day as well. I’ll take you up on that offer though,” Krem nodded briefly at Mercia. “Have a nice day, Your Worship.”

 

* * *

 

That evening, Cassandra entered the library, dressed down but recently bathed, her braid hanging over her shoulder. She was carrying something under her arm.

Mercia had thought that Cassandra would not come, in case she was angry at her for the flower incident, or avoiding her for the same reason. But she had come, and although she was looking a little tense, there was a determination in her poise that Mercia had always admired from afar, and was lucky to see up close this time.

“Mercia.” On Cassandra’s tongue her name were two syllables, and Mercia tingled with the way Cassandra’s accent rubbed around them.

“What’s this?” Mercia said, wondering what was with the package that Cassandra had shoved into her hands.

“I bought this a while ago, and I have been debating when would be the right time to give it to you. I decided it was now. It’s a gift.”

“A gift? For me?” Mercia started undoing the bow tied around the gift wrap, and then the rest fell away, and the cover from the third, illusive part of her favorite book series was revealed. Her eyes lit up, and her heart started beating unreasonably fast.

“Oh. Where did you find this? I’ve been looking all over Val Royeaux’ book shops, and my attempts have been in vain. But this…oh, Cassandra, this is so kind of you,” Mercia slid her fingers over the cover, turning the book over in her hands. The idea that Cassandra had remembered and had cared enough to put time into acquiring the book filled her with happiness. She looked at Cassandra, completely flustered. She was so certain her love was oozing from her features, and she did not mind. “Thank you so much,” she said, her voice soft, breaking in her earnestness.

She sat down, and she could not stop smiling. She gazed at the cover some more, and opened the book. A note, unmistakably in Cassandra’s left-handed script, slid out.

_Mercia,_

_The flowers. They were yours._

_This book is a gift that is meant to convey a similar sentiment. Unless your flowers tried to say friendship, because that is not what I am aiming for. I believe we have grown close in way that is quite wonderful, and I have to admit I have cared a great deal about you for a while now._

_If this book is a good story, talk to me about it. I like seeing you smile._

_Yours,_

_Cassandra_

Mercia looked up at Cassandra, who had somehow failed to sit down. And how, when Cassandra had made that beautiful request, could Mercia not smile up at her, with luminous, loving eyes?

Cassandra replied with her own wonderful, nervous smile, and Mercia could not have asked for a greater gift. She put the book onto the desk and rose to her feet. Cassandra stepped closer instantly.

“Cassandra,” Mercia said. “I will court you in any way you want. I will give you my all, if you let me.”

“You have already given me flowers.” Cassandra ran her hands up Mercia’s arms, no restraints, no emotional barriers. “So that leaves poetry by candlelight,” Cassandra smiled. Her uninjured hand moved, cupping Mercia’s jaw, and Mercia let out a jagged breath. “But I suppose that can wait until I’ve kissed you.”

Mercia nodded and leaned down, her eyes focused on Cassandra’s mouth, noticing the tiniest of scars on her upper lip now that she was so close. She could feel Cassandra’s breath against her face. Cassandra closed the gap, and Mercia hummed against her soft, eager mouth.

Finally. _Finally_.

Mercia leaned back against the desk, pulling Cassandra with her. Cassandra wrapped her arms around Mercia’s shoulders, pressing their bodies together, making Mercia wish there were no clothes in between to absorb the feeling. She didn’t know what undiluted happiness felt like, but she was sure that kissing Cassandra came very, very close.

Mercia closed her eyes and allowed Cassandra to take the lead for a while, letting herself be at the mercy of Cassandra’s insistent press of lips and tentative tongue. She hadn’t been touched like this in a long time, and the fire roared inside her, settling in her limbs and her belly. She didn’t want to stop, but she was breathing harshly through her nose, and eventually she surrendered to the need to breathe through her mouth. She broke the kiss and took Cassandra’s heated face in her trembling hands, stroking her gracious cheekbones, her scars.

“There are candles here,” she said, her head spinning. “As for poetry…I could recite _In dreams A Spirit_.” It was one of the few romantic poems she had read and enjoyed a reasonable amount. “I can never remember past the first two lines, though, because I get too hung up on realizing the poet is describing a demon, not a spirit.”

Cassandra laughed throatily. “I happen to know that poem quite well. If you get stuck, I will fill in the blanks for you.”

Mercia cleared her throat, but she could not prevent her voice from being incredibly low and husky, though judging from the blush that became more prominent on Cassandra’s cheeks, she did not mind at all.

“ _In dreams a spirit came to me,  
weaved words of want and longing,_ ”

Cassandra bit down on her bottom lip, and even if Mercia had remembered the words to the poem before, she promptly forgot them now. Cassandra pressed closer, their noses brushing together, and cited the next few lines.

“ _spun tales of things I wish'd to see,  
and would forget come morning._ ”

They didn’t make it past the first stanza. It wasn’t clear who started the kiss this time, so equal was their yearning for each other. Mercia licked Cassandra’s upper lip and stroked her tongue fully into her mouth, showing her what she’d been missing. Cassandra accepted the change of reigns with an incredibly heady noise that made Mercia keen. Her hands dropped to Cassandra’s shoulders, grabbing onto them, cherishing the feeling of muscle shifting underneath fabric, underneath skin. Cassandra pressed herself even closer, her hands on Mercia’s clavicles and wandering lower.

“Cassandra,” Mercia said, leaning back just far enough to press her mouth against Cassandra’s jaw. “I want you very much right now, but I cannot bear the idea of our first time being against this wobbly desk.”

“What do you suggest?”

Mercia kissed Cassandra’s neck, feeling the delicious shiver that went through her.

“Come to bed with me,” she whispered.

Reluctantly, Cassandra took a step back.

“I have not done this with anyone in a long time,” she said, and Mercia thought Cassandra would tell her that she wanted to wait, but instead, Cassandra swallowed. “I just thought you should know.”

Mercia rose to her feet, put her hands gently against Cassandra’s upper arms.

“I-” Mercia began, but she did not have the words to express the emotions surging through her veins, not at that moment.

This was wonderful… _they_ were wonderful. Mercia had a chance to prove, both to herself and to Cassandra, that she could be what Cassandra wanted. Her own certainty when it came to wanting Cassandra, wanting her romance, had never been more obviously present. And while it was true that she was teeming with nervous energy at the prospect of getting to see and touch Cassandra, she was also looking forward to the tangled up aftermath, during which she would feel safe enough to make soft confessions - the very ones that would not flow from her right now, in this library, where so much had been set in motion.

 “Shall we go, then?”

“Yes. You may lead the way.” Cassandra shifted her weight from one foot onto the other and exhibited a small smile. Mercia wondered if it had cost Cassandra any effort to utter those words.

 “Hold on, I wouldn’t want to forget this,” Mercia said, taking her books and Cassandra’s note in one hand, and putting the other on the small of Cassandra’s back to gently guide her out of the library.


End file.
